Wedding Bells for Beatrice
Betty Neels
You should marry again Beatrice sympathized with Gijs van der Eekerk. A widower with a small child and a busy medical career needed someone to make sure his domestic life ran smoothly.What she hadn't counted on was his decision to offer her the position. As his wife, she would have a comfortable lifestyle and everything that money could buy. But what was that, if Gijs couldn't offer her love?
Dear Reader,
Looking back over the years, I find it hard to realise that twenty-six of them have gone by since I wrote my first book—Sister Peters in Amsterdam. It wasn’t until I started writing about her that I found that once I had started writing, nothing was going to make me stop—and at that time I had no intention of sending it to a publisher. It was my daughter who urged me to try my luck.
I shall never forget the thrill of having my first book accepted. A thrill I still get each time a new story is accepted. Writing to me is such a pleasure, and seeing a story unfolding on my old typewriter is like watching a film and wondering how it will end. Happily of course.
To have so many of my books re-published is such a delightful thing to happen and I can only hope that those who read them will share my pleasure in seeing them on the bookshelves again…and enjoy reading them.
Wedding Bells for Beatrice
Betty Neels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u97062e83-55d3-5ed7-9769-923bb0601204)
Title Page (#u0a155cff-87e0-5dd3-b31b-cc6ad3b55ccc)
CHAPTER ONE (#u2fd244d3-56e0-5bfe-8482-69625ef6b471)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua4f8dda4-f748-5c7d-9bb1-6727aca7651f)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc13822ca-bcc9-5dae-b78d-7ceb14d85851)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_99e6760d-2bcd-5dae-a9b2-977a0e430da5)
LADY DOWLEY’S Christmas party was in full swing, an event which achieved the very pinnacle of social life in the village of Little Estling, remotely situated as it was some nine miles from Aylesbury and well away from the main road. Remote though it was, it had more than its fair share of landed gentry and the retired professional classes scattered in and around the small place, carrying on tradition: cricket in summer, garden parties, church bazaars, carol-singing at Christmas …
The large ornate drawing-room in Lady Dowley’s Victorian mansion was full of people, not because she was especially liked in the neighbourhood but because she offered refreshments of a kind most of them were quite unable to afford: smoked salmon, Parma ham, delicious bits and pieces poised on minuscule scraps of toast. The wines were good too; her late husband had assembled a nice cellar before he died. She was an overbearing woman, still handsome in a middle-aged way and prone to interfere in other people’s affairs and with a deep-rooted conviction that she was always right. It would have upset her very much to know that her friends and acquaintances pitied her and, despite not liking her over-much, would be prepared to go to her aid if it should ever be required.
Happily unaware of this, she surged to and fro, being gracious to those she considered a little beneath her socially and effusive to those she saw as her equals, and presently she fetched up before a middle-aged, thick-set man with a calm wise face and shrewd eyes.
‘Dr Crawley, how delightful to see you.’ She glanced around her. ‘And your dear wife?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘And your lovely daughter?’
Dr Crawley said comfortably, ‘They are here, Lady Dowley, no doubt having a good gossip with someone or other. You’re keeping well? And Phoebe?’
‘I told her that she simply had to come—I go to all the trouble of asking any number of interesting people.’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘You must excuse me; there is a very old firm friend—do remember me to your wife if I shouldn’t see her … Perhaps she will come to tea soon.’
Dr Crawley made a non-committal noise. His wife, a sweet-tempered woman with a retiring disposition, was none the less the granddaughter of an earl, therefore to be cultivated by his hostess. Dr Crawley, whose family had lived on the outskirts of the village for generations, and who knew every single inhabitant, gave a derisive snort and then turned to see who was tapping him on the shoulder.
His daughter Beatrice was a head taller than he, a splendidly shaped girl standing five feet ten inches tall in her bare feet and as pretty as a picture. She had light brown hair, long and straight and coiled in the nape of her neck, large grey eyes with sweeping lashes the same colour as her hair, a delicate nose and a wide, sweetly curved mouth above a determined chin. She was smiling.
‘Father, cheer up—we’ll be able to leave in another half-hour or so. I’ve left Mother with Mrs Hodge discussing knitting patterns.’ She stopped abruptly as a pair of hands covered her eyes from behind. ‘Derek, it is you, isn’t it? Has the path. lab thrown you out at last?’
She put up a hand to her forehead. ‘Don’t you dare to make my hair untidy, it took me hours …!’
The hands dropped and she was turned round, smiling, offering a cheek for his casual kiss, aware that there was someone with him. A man of vast proportions with grey hair cut very short and heavy-lidded blue eyes. It was an unpleasant shock to see that he was looking at her with a detached coolness so that her smile faded. He doesn’t like me, she thought uncertainly, but we don’t even know each other …
‘Beatrice, this is Gijs van der Eekerk—Gijs, this is Beatrice Crawley; we’ve known each other since we were trundled out in our prams. Years ago.’
She shot him a look—any minute now he would tell this man how old she was. She held out a hand and said, ‘How do you do?’ and had it engulfed in a firm grip. ‘Are you visiting Derek?’ she asked, wanting to hear his voice.
‘For a day or so.’ He stood, looking down at her, making no effort to hold the kind of social conversation she expected.
‘You’re Dutch?’ she asked for the sake of something to say. ‘You know England well?’
‘I come over fairly frequently—this is a very pretty part of the country.’
She agreed and wished heartily that Derek and her father would stop whatever they were saying to each other and help out with the talk.
‘What a pity it is that convention prevents us from saying what we wish to say and forces us to make small talk about the weather.’
He had a deep voice and his English was faultless with only a slight accent. She stared at him, at a loss for words for a moment. Then she said, ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’ She spoke sharply. ‘But I think you would like to.’
He smiled then, a small smile which made her feel foolish although she had no idea why. ‘Indeed I would, and I must warn you that at times I do.’ He paused. ‘Speak my mind.’
‘Then I am sorry for whoever has to listen to you,’ she said with a snap. ‘You’ll excuse me? I see someone I want to talk to.’
She left him and he watched her go before joining her father and his friend.
She knew everyone there, going from group to group, exchanging gossip, and all the while knowing that she would have to find the wretched man and apologise for her rudeness. All the same, she reminded herself, she had meant it.
Her mother and father were on the point of leaving when she saw him again, talking to the Reverend Mr Perkins. She made her way slowly towards them, intent on getting the business over since they weren’t likely to meet again.
The rector saw her first. ‘Beatrice—I’ve been wanting a word with you—come over to the rectory in the morning, will you …?’ He looked apologetically at the man beside him. ‘Christmas, you know—such a busy time.’ He held out a hand. ‘A pleasure meeting you, and I hope it may be repeated.’ He beamed at Beatrice. ‘I leave you in good hands; Beatrice is a sweet girl.’ He trotted off, unaware of the effect of his words.
Her companion lifted his eyebrows. ‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and, I must admit, surprised.’
Beatrice’s magnificent bosom swelled with sudden temper. ‘I might have known,’ she said bitterly. ‘I came to apologise for being rude, but I’m not going to now.’
He said to infuriate her still more, ‘No, no, why should you? You have a very good expression in English—to vent one’s spleen—so very apt, I have always thought. Besides, bad temper suits you. Pray don’t give a thought to apologising.’
‘Well, I won’t. It is a very good thing that we are never likely to see each other again, for we don’t get on.’
‘Apparently not.’ He sounded uninterested, waiting for her to end the conversation.
‘Goodbye,’ said Beatrice. If she had known how to flounce she would have done so, but she didn’t, so she walked away with her chin up and a very straight back. She looked just as delightful from the back, the man reflected, watching her go.
Beatrice, sitting beside her father as he drove home through the scattering of houses and up the hill on the other side to where they lived, replied rather absentmindedly to her mother’s comments about the party, while she reflected, very much to her surprise, that she wished that she could meet Gijs van der Eekerk again. Not because she liked him, she hastened to assure herself, but to find out more about him.
Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Will you see Tom tomorrow?’
Tom?’ Beatrice sounded vague, ‘Oh, I don’t know …’
Mrs Crawley’s maternal instincts were at once on the alert. ‘What a charming man that was who came with Derek—I wonder where he comes from and what he does …?’
Beatrice muttered, ‘I’ve no idea,’ and her father made no effort to enlighten them; instead he made some placid remark about the evening.
Christmas was only two days away. George, the Crawleys’ son, a medical student nine years younger than his sister, would be coming home for two days’ leave and two elderly aunts would be arriving in the morning to spend Christmas—there was more than enough to keep Beatrice busy what with helping her mother prepare for Christmas and helping with the flowers at the church. Making mince pies and arranging holly wreaths made a welcome change from her job at St Justin’s Hospital in the heart of the East End of London. She liked her work—being responsible for the smooth running and maintainance of the extensive laboratory attached to the hospital. She had gone there straight from her domestic science course and gradually worked her way up to her present job—as high as she could go. Sometimes the thought that she would be there for ever crept into her mind—twenty-eight was no longer the first flush of youth and despite several offers of marriage she had felt no urge to accept any of them. There was always Tom, of course, who tended to behave as though he had only to beckon and she would come. He was ambitious, working his way ruthlessly to a consultant’s status, and she sometimes suspected that the love he professed for her was a good deal less than his anticipation of a path smoothed for him by a father-in-law who knew all the right people. He was a pleasant companion and she saw a good deal of him—had even invited him home for a weekend. Her mother and father had been hospitable and friendly but she was aware that they hadn’t liked him.
George arrived soon after breakfast on Christmas Eve, laden with a bag of washing, a crate of beer and a great many parcels. ‘Presents,’ he explained cheerfully, ‘but I’ve not had time to wrap them up—I know you’ll do it for me, Beatrice.’
‘I’ll be sorry for your wife when you get one,’ said Beatrice good-naturedly and filled the washing-machine before going in search of paper and labels. He sat at the kitchen table drinking mugs of coffee and telling her what to write on the labels in between answering his mother’s questions about his work. He was just starting his second year and had passed his first exams; he loved it, he assured her, and Beatrice, who had a very good idea of a medical student’s life, smiled at him. They got on well together despite the difference in their ages and, perhaps because of this, he had always confided in her.
She finished the presents, cut him a hunk of the big fruitcake on the dresser and went to answer the doorbell.
It was the aunts, elderly and rather old-fashioned, having been driven from Aylesbury in a hired car. They were sitting in the back, very erect, their faces composed under formidable felt hats. Beatrice greeted them and the chauffeur, asked him to bring in the luggage and went to help her aunts out of the car. They were both quite capable of helping themselves but it never entered their heads to do so. They never spoke of the lordly head of the family but they didn’t forget him either. Certain standards had to be maintained; they reminded each other of this from time to time and they had no intention of altering a way of life which had been normal in their youth, but despite their stiff manners they were dear old things—Beatrice loved them.
She eased them out carefully, kissed the proffered cheeks and led the way indoors.
Later that morning, the old ladies settled in and the chores done, Beatrice got into the elderly cloak hanging behind the kitchen door and worn by everyone in the family and took herself off to the church to find Mr Perkins. He was putting a plug on the fairy-lights on the Christmas tree and making a bad job of it. Beatrice took it from him, rearranged the wires, screwed them down and handed it back to him. He was a nice old man, everyone in the village liked him, but he needed a great deal of looking after since his wife had died.
He thanked her warmly. ‘I asked you to come and see me but I’m afraid I can’t remember why.’ And before she could suggest anything, he said, ‘What a very nice man that was with young Derek—I wish I had had more time to talk to him. I trust we shall see him again …’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think so,’ said Beatrice. ‘He’s Dutch, you know, and only here on a visit.’
‘A pity. Ah, I’ve remembered what I wished to ask you, my dear. If you could give a hand with the children during the blessing of the crib?’
‘Yes, of course. Six o’clock this evening, isn’t it?’
‘So kind. When do you go back to your work, Beatrice?’
‘Boxing Day, in the evening. It’s lovely to be home for Christmas. I must fly—the aunts and George are staying with us, and Mother needs a hand in the kitchen.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He smiled gently. ‘Run along … It seems only the other day that you were a little girl. How old are you now, Beatrice?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘You should be married with children.’
‘As soon as I can find a husband I’ll do just that, and you shall marry us.’ She laughed as she spoke, but really, she reflected as she sped home, it was no laughing matter. She hadn’t lacked for prospective husbands but somehow none of them had touched her heart. ‘I dare say I shall make a splendid aunt,’ she said to Horace, the elderly cat who had invited himself to live with them some years ago and had been there ever since.
Horace jumped down off the wall and followed her into the house. He had long ago realised that when she was at home he could be sure of getting his meals on time. Her romantic future was of no concern to him.
She hadn’t been home for Christmas for three years and she enjoyed every moment of it, especially the blessing of the crib with the children milling around, some of them dressed in curtains and their mothers’ dressing-gowns and gold paper crowns, enacting their own little play round the crib. Beatrice, nipping smartly to and fro, shushing the noisiest of them and rearranging the curtains which had come adrift, thoroughly enjoyed herself. She went home to supper when it was all over and listened to her aunts’ gentle reminiscences of their youth and presently slipped out of the room to join George and listen to his account of his life at the hospital. She gathered that it wasn’t bad—he was clever and when he chose worked hard and didn’t mind the long hours of study. He had friends too, and his social life, as far as she could gather, was a lively one.
‘What about you?’ he wanted to know. ‘Isn’t it about time you got married?’ He added, ‘What about Tom?’
She took this in good part. ‘It’s a funny thing, George, I’ve done my best to fall in love with him, but it’s no good. You see, I don’t think it’s me he wants, it’s a quick way to the top, and Daddy could help him …’
‘Toss him out, my dear. Isn’t there anyone else?’ She said no in a doubtful voice while Gijs van der Eekerk’s handsome features floated around in her head. She shook it vigorously and said ‘no’ again quite violently. Why should she think of him when she so disliked him?
George gave her a curious look and said nothing. So there was someone, even if she didn’t know it herself. The thought pleased him; he had never liked Tom, who patronised him.
Christmas Day, its traditions never varying from year to year, came and went with its presents, church in the morning, turkey and Christmas pudding, crackers and cake, and then Boxing Day, pleasantly easygoing after the hustle and bustle, followed it all too swiftly. Beatrice loaded her bag into her own Mini, added a box of food which her mother considered necessary to augment what she considered to be the hospital stodge, hugged everyone and promised to be home again as soon as she could get a couple of days off, and drove away, down the lane past Lady Dowley’s imposing house and through the village. A pity Derek had a week’s leave, she reflected; she saw very little of him at the hospital but from time to time they saw each other going their various ways and very occasionally they had gone out to supper when they were both free.
She took a side-road to Aylesbury and presently joined the A41 which took her to the outskirts of London. She was a good driver and there was very little traffic. She went across the city, a lengthy business, weaving in and out of streets becoming more and more shabby as she went east. Presently she could see the bulk of St Justin’s ahead of her, towering over the rows of grimy little houses and shops, and turned in through its open gateway to park her car at the back of the hospital and go in through a side-door. It opened on to a passage going left and right and she took the one going away from the hospital to the newer block which housed the path. lab and the various departments appertaining to it. Her flatlet was on the top floor, a large room, nicely furnished, with its own little shower-room and tiny kitchenette. The view from its windows was depressing enough—chimney-pots and boarded-up shops and warehouses—but she kept an array of pot plants on the sills which screened the worst of them and had added over the years bright cushions, and pretty lamps so that the place was welcoming. She was a lucky young woman, she told herself as she unpacked her bag. She had a good job, reasonably well paid, and she liked her work. On the ground floor she had her office where she dealt with the cleaners, the part-time cook who came in from time to time to provide the laboratory staff with meals if they weren’t able to go to the hospital canteen, and, as well as this, she paid the bills, and worked her way through a great deal of paperwork which the hospital administration demanded of her. She kept a motherly eye on everyone too, reporting sickness or injuries, and she dealt with the mundane running of the place—the plumber, painters, maintenance men—and, over and above that, dealt with the foibles of the varied learned gentlemen who worked there with their assistants. She was known rather grandly as the administrator but she thought of herself as the housekeeper.
She was opening a can of soup when the telephone rang. ‘You’re back,’ said Tom. ‘I thought of you living in the lap of luxury while the rest of us worked ourselves into the ground. I suppose you went to several marvellous parties …’
‘One,’ said Beatrice and wondered why she felt no sympathy for him.
‘Lucky girl. How about telling me all about it tomorrow evening? I shall be free for a few hours—we might go and have a meal somewhere. Seven o’clock suit you?’
She frowned, faintly annoyed that he was so sure of her accepting. ‘I shall be busy tomorrow—everyone will be working late; there’s the seminar on the following day …’
For heaven’s sake!’ He sounded as peevish as a spoilt child. ‘Why must you fuss over those old back-room boys?’
‘I’m not fussing, just doing my job.’ She spoke sharply and he was quick to hear it.
‘Sorry, Beatrice—I’m tired, I suppose. Let’s meet around eight o’clock and have a cup of coffee—tell you what, I’ll be in the car and if you aren’t there by half-past I’ll know you couldn’t make it.’
She couldn’t in all fairness object to that; she agreed and hung up with the nagging thought that perhaps she had been unreasonable. He was a busy man and good at his job and she was aware that sooner or later he would ask her to marry him, and always at the back of her head was the unpleasant thought that he didn’t love her—not with the kind of love she wanted, anyway. She was sure that if she had been a hospital clerk with a father who had no influential friends he would never have entertained the idea of marrying her. On the other hand, he was ambitious and hard-working and had a charming manner when he needed it; he would make a success of his career and she would have a pleasant enough life. She wandered around the room, picking things up and putting them down again, feeling unsettled.
There was plenty to keep her occupied the next day. Very neat in her dark grey dress with its white collar and cuffs, she toured the whole place, making sure that the domestic staff were doing what they were supposed to do, calculating with the cook just how many morning coffees and afternoon teas she would have to get ready. She hadn’t had the list of names yet, which was vexing, although she did know the number of men who would be attending; at least she could make sure that the lecture-room near her small office could be got ready.
The various laboratories were all hard at work again after Christmas and she was kept busy: an urgent call for a new light bulb, a worn washer on one of the sink taps, demands for hot milk from Professor Moore, the dermatologist, who had a frightful cold, more demands for Panadol from his secretary, who was convinced that she had caught it.
Really, thought Beatrice, I’m actually the caretaker with a bit of book-keeping thrown in. Administrator was far too grand a word for it.
Several of the labs were working late; she sent up coffee and sandwiches to the technicians and took herself off to her flat. It was already after seven o’clock and she would have liked to have a shower, get into her dressing-gown and eat her supper by the small gas fire, with a good book. Instead she showered and changed into a green wool dress and put on a thick wool coat, rammed a woolly cap on to her head, found gloves and handbag and went out of the building, along the passage and through the hospital until she reached the entrance. Tom was there; she could see him sitting in his car, reading the paper. He saw her too as she crossed the forecourt, folded the paper and opened the door for her.
‘I was going to give you another five minutes, but I guessed you would come.’ He sounded smug.
His tone implied that she would always come running … never mind if she were tired or cross or just not feeling like going out. She busied herself with her safety-belt and stayed silent. He made it worse by remarking that she would feel better after a drink and launching into a very complicated account of his own busy day.
Beatrice, feeling ruffled because he hadn’t bothered to ask her if she had had a good Christmas, wished she hadn’t come. And why had she come? she asked herself. Force of habit? She had allowed herself to drift into something more than casual friendship with Tom and it struck her now that it was time it ended. She was a kind-hearted girl and although he was exasperating her now she was honest enough to admit that she had enjoyed several pleasant evenings with him when they had first become friendly; it was only later that she’d realised that he was using her as a means to an end. Perhaps she could talk to him presently.
‘We’ll go to the Tower Thistle,’ he told her, ‘have something in the bar. I mustn’t be away for more than an hour or so, and I’ll probably get called up during the night. I could do with some sleep too. We had a splendid party on Christmas night, didn’t get to bed until two o’clock and got called out just after five. Ah, well, it isn’t for ever—once I get a decent private practice—a partnership, perhaps …’ He went on at some length, sure of himself and her attention.
She was only half listening; the first of the specialists would be arriving in time for coffee in the morning and she was going over her careful catering once more, saying, ‘Oh yes?’ and, ‘Really?’ and, ‘Of course,’ at intervals. Once at the hotel, a vast place which she didn’t much like, she had to give Tom her undivided attention, sitting opposite him at a table in the bar, eating sandwiches and drinking a glass of white wine. The sandwiches were small and elegant, garnished with cress, and Beatrice, who was hungry, could have eaten the lot.
‘You’ll have had a good square meal,’ said Tom comfortably, ‘but do devour one—there’s just enough horseradish with the beef.’
She nibbled one, thinking of fried eggs on baked beans and a huge pot of tea or coffee. It was a funny thing, but Tom wasn’t the kind of man you could ask to take you to the nearest McDonald’s. If he wasn’t hungry, then you weren’t either, or, for that matter, if he assumed that you weren’t hungry and he was he wouldn’t ask you if you were …
It was very noisy in the bar and he had to raise his voice when he spoke. He put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. ‘Isn’t it time that we made a few plans?’
‘Plans? What plans?’
He smiled at her indulgently. ‘Our future—I’ve another six months to do at St Justin’s then I’ll be ready to get a practice—buy a partnership. I’ll need some financial backing but your father could put me in touch with all the right people—he may be a country GP but he knows everyone worth knowing, doesn’t he? Besides, your mother …’ He paused delicately and his smile widened and he added coaxingly, ‘Once all that is settled we might get married.’
Beatrice sought for words; the only ones she could think of were very rude, so she kept silent. He must have been very sure of her—his proposal, if you could call it that, had been an afterthought. She twiddled the glass in her hand and wondered what would happen if she threw it at him. She said very quietly, ‘But I don’t want to marry you, Tom.’
He laughed, ‘Don’t be a silly girl, of course you do. Don’t pretend that I’ve taken you by surprise. We’ve been going out together now for weeks and I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to settle down once I’m away from St Justin’s.’
‘I don’t remember you asking me if I had any plans for the future,’ observed Beatrice. She was bubbling over with rage but she looked quite serene. ‘But you—your plan was to get my father to put in a good word for you—I don’t know where Mother comes in … Oh, of course—being the granddaughter of an earl.’
‘A little name-dropping never does any harm,’ answered Tom complacently. ‘Can’t you just see it in the Telegraph? “Beatrice, daughter of Dr and the Hon. Mrs Crawley”.’ He sat back in his chair, smiling at her.
‘Tom, I have just told you—I don’t want to marry you. I’m sorry if you got the impression that I did. We’ve been good friends and enjoyed each other’s company but that’s all, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very fond of you, old girl.’ He didn’t notice her wince. ‘You’ll be a splendid wife, all the right connections and so on. I’ll make a name for myself in no time.’
The colossal conceit of him, reflected Beatrice; it was like trying to dent a steel plate with a teaspoon. He hadn’t once said that he loved her …
Characteristically, he didn’t ask if she wanted to go but finished his drink with an air of satisfaction at a job well done and asked, ‘Ready? I’ve got a couple of cases that I must look at.’
She got into the car beside him and he drove back to the hospital in silence. At the entrance he said, ‘We must get together again as soon as possible—you’ll have to give up your job here, of course.’
‘Tom,’ she tried to sound reasonable, ‘you don’t understand. I don’t want to marry you and I have no intention of giving up my job here. I think it might be better if we don’t see each other again. Surely we can part friends?’ She added coldly, ‘There must be plenty of suitable girls from whom you can choose a wife.’
‘Oh, you are being a silly girl. You’ll change your mind, I’ll see to that. I’ll give you a ring when I’m free.’
He sat in the car with the engine still running, waiting for her to get out, and the moment that she did he shot away with a casual wave. Not the behaviour of a man who had only half an hour ago proposed to her. Bottled-up rage and hurt feelings choked her as she crossed the courtyard. It was cold and very dark once she was away from the brightly lit entrance. The bulk of the new block behind the hospital loomed ahead of her; there were still a good many lights burning—several of the path. labs were still working. She wished with all her heart that she were at home, able to go to her room and cry her eyes out without anyone wanting to know why unless she wished to tell them. Held-back tears filled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks; there was no one to tell here …!
There was, however. Gijs van der Eekerk reached the door at the same time as she did; his large gloved hand covered hers as she put it on the door-handle.
He took no notice of her stifled scream. ‘They told me that you would be back—that you had gone out for an hour with Dr Ford. I thought we might bury the hatchet over supper.’
He took the hand off the door and turned her round so that the dim light above the door shone on her face.
His ‘tut-tut’ was uttered with all the mild good-natured concern of an uncle or elder brother. ‘Tears? May I ask why?’
‘Don’t you tut-tut at me,’ said Beatrice crossly, ‘and if I want to cry I shall and I shan’t tell you why.’
He offered a large handkerchief. ‘No, no, of course you shan’t and a good weep is very soothing to the nerves, only wouldn’t it be better if you wept in a warmer spot?’
She blew her nose. ‘Yes, of course if would. If you would let me go in I can get some peace and quiet in my flat.’
‘Splendid.’ He opened the door and, when she had gone through, followed her.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ said Beatrice, belatedly remembering her manners. Then she added, ‘How did you get here?’
‘I’m to read a paper here in the morning.’
‘You’re a doctor—a surgeon …?’
‘A haematologist. Let us go to your flat. You can tidy yourself before we go somewhere and have supper.’
‘I don’t want … that is, thank you very much, but I don’t want any supper and there is no need for you to come with me.’
‘Ah—you had a meal with that young man who drove off in such a hurry?’
‘You were spying?’
‘No—no—I was just getting out of my car.’ He sounded so reasonable that she felt guilty of her suspicions and muttered,
‘Sorry.’
‘So now let us do as I suggested, there’s a good girl,’ His avuncular manner was reassuring; she led the way to the top floor and opened the door of her flat.
He took her coat in the tiny hallway. ‘Run along and do your face,’ he advised her, and went round the room, turning on the lamps and closing the curtains and, despite the faint warmth from the central heating, he turned on the gas fire too. The sleeping area of the room was curtained off and she set to, repairing the damage done to her face and re-doing her hair, listening to him strolling around the room, whistling softly. She reflected that he was the first man to be there; it had never entered her head to invite Tom or any of the young doctors who from time to time had asked her out, and she wondered now what on earth had possessed her to do so now. Not that she had invited him; he had come with her as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do. She frowned as she stuck pins into her coil of hair; he was altogether too much and she would tell him so—show him the door, politely, of course.
He was sitting, his coat off, in one of the small easy-chairs by the fire, but he got up as she crossed the room, watching her. ‘That’s better. Supposing that you tell me what upset you then if you want to cry again you can do so in warmth and comfort before we go to supper.’
‘I have no intention of crying again, Doctor, nor do I want supper.’
Her insides rumbled as she said it, giving the lie to her words. She might have saved her breath.
He pulled forward a chair invitingly. ‘Did he jilt you or did you jilt him?’
She found herself sitting opposite him. ‘Well, neither really,’ she began.
‘A quarrel? It will help to talk about it and since I am a complete stranger to you too you can say what you like, I’ll listen and forget about it.’
She was taking leave of her senses of course, confiding in this man.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘it is all a bit of a muddle.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bfdcf8ec-39e8-5858-a81c-af8d72c1f27b)
THE professor was a splendid listener; Beatrice quite forgot that he was there once she had started. ‘It’s probably all my fault. Tom’s attractive and amusing and I suppose I was flattered and it got a kind of habit to go out with him when he asked me. I didn’t really notice how friendly we’d become. I took him home for a weekend …’
She paused. ‘Mother and Father didn’t like him very much—oh, they didn’t say so, I just knew, and then lately he began to talk about buying a practice and making a name for himself, only he said he would need some backing and he began to talk about Father—he’s a GP, and not well known or anything, but he does know a lot of important medical men, and Tom discovered that Mother was an earl’s granddaughter.’ She paused to say wildly, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this …’
He said in a detached voice, ‘As I have already said, we’re more or less strangers, unlikely to be more than that. I’m just a face to talk to … go on!’
‘I—I was getting doubtful, I mean I wasn’t sure if I liked him as much as I thought I did, if you see what I mean, and then this evening he wanted me to go out with him; he was very persistent so I went. He took me to the Tower Thistle—it’s a hotel, not too far away.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘He ate all but one of the sandwiches—he said that no doubt I had had a good square meal. I knew that I didn’t love him then—well, any girl would, wouldn’t she?’ She gave her companion a brief glance and found his face passive and impersonal. ‘Then he said it was time we thought about our future, that he would need financial backing to get a partnership and that Father would be a great help. He even suggested that he could use Mother’s name to give him a start; he actually described the notice of our engagement in the Telegraph. I told him that I didn’t want to marry him—he hadn’t actually asked me, just took me for granted—and then he just laughed.’ She sniffed and added in a furious voice, ‘I won’t be taken for granted.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed the professor. ‘This—Tom—? seems to be a singularly thick-skinned man.’ His voice was as avuncular as his manner. ‘Do you see much of him during your working hours?’
‘Hardly ever. I’m here all day and he works on the medical wards, but he telephones and I have to answer in case it’s one of the profs, wanting hot milk or sandwiches.’
‘Hot milk?’ The professor looked taken aback.
‘Well, some of them are getting on a bit and they forget to go to meals or go home when they’re supposed to. I suppose professors are all the same, a bit absentminded …’
She gave him a startled look. ‘You’re a professor, you must be if you’re coming to the seminar tomorrow.’
‘Well, yes, I am, but I must assure you at once that I am unlikely to need hot milk. Which reminds me, we still have to have supper.’
‘I don’t want …’ began Beatrice, saw the quizzical lift of his eyebrows and added quickly, ‘Thank you, that would be nice—if it could be somewhere quiet? I’m not dressed for anywhere smart. Do you know London?’
‘I find my way around,’ admitted the professor modestly. ‘Get your coat and let us see what we can find.’
When she came back ready to leave he had turned off the fire, left one lamp burning and had the door open. As they went down to the entrance the building was very quiet and, despite the heating, chilly. It was even colder outside and he took her arm and hurried her round to the corner of the forecourt where he had parked his car.
‘You drove over?’ asked Beatrice, silently admiring the understated luxury of the big Bentley as she was ushered into it.
He got in beside her and drove out of the forecourt with the minimum of fuss. ‘I have several other hospitals to visit while I’m here. It saves time if I have the car.’
She sat quietly, realising almost at once that he knew London well, not hesitating at all until he stopped in Camden Passage, got out and opened her door, locked it, put money in the parking meter and led her across the pavement to the restaurant. She had heard of it—Frederick’s—but she had never been there and she hung back a little, wondering if she was wearing the right clothes.
‘Now don’t start fussing,’ begged the professor, just as though she had voiced her doubts. ‘You’re perfectly adequately dressed,’ he added as a concession to her uncertainty. ‘You look very nice.’
A remark her brother George might have made, and one hardly adequate; she dressed well, knowing what suited her and that she could afford to buy it—the tweed coat and woolly cap were suitable for a quick drink on a cold winter’s night but not what she would have chosen for a late dinner in a restaurant.
She was propelled with gentle remorselessness through the entrance. ‘You can leave your coat there,’ said the professor, and bade the doorman good evening.
When she joined him, reassured by her reflection in the cloakroom’s mirrors, he was talking to the maître d’ who, as she reached them, led them to a table by a window, paused to recommend the pheasant, which he said was excellent, wished them an enjoyable meal and gave way to a waiter.
‘You like pheasant?’ asked the professor. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer something else.’
She studied the menu and suddenly felt famished. ‘I’d like the pheasant, please …’
‘The lobster mousse is delicious—shall we start with that?’
She would have started with a hunk of bread, lunch having been a sketchy affair of soup and a roll and her solitary beef sandwich already long forgotten.
She ate the mousse with pleasure. It was amazing what good food did to restore one’s good spirits; by the time they had disposed of the pheasant and she was deciding on a sweet she had quite recovered and was once more the level-headed supervisor, making polite conversation over the dinner-table. All the same during a pause in the talk she caught her companion’s eye resting thoughtfully upon her face and said impulsively, ‘I’m sorry I made a fool of myself this evening. So very stupid of me.’
The professor smiled. The smile held mockery. ‘Dear, oh, dear! Here we go again back to square one, about to discuss the weather, unless I am much mistaken, and I was beginning to think that we had at least cracked the ice.’
‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘Such a useful remark and quite without truth. Never mind, though, tell me about tomorrow—do you check us in as we arrive? Presumably we are expected to go to the hospital main entrance …’
She would have liked to have argued with him but he hadn’t given her the chance. Besides, she mustn’t forget that he was a visiting specialist, to be treated with respect. ‘No need for that,’ she told him. ‘You can use the door we came through this evening. I’ll be at the desk in the reception area, ticking off names.’
‘Then what do you do?’
‘Go to the kitchen and make sure that coffee and biscuits are ready, there’s a buffet lunch at one o’clock, I’ll have to see to that, and then the clearing-up afterwards and there’s tea at four o’clock.’
‘You have help, of course?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m just there to see that everything is going smoothly.’
She finished the bombe glacé with a small sigh of content and he ordered coffee.
‘Do you see much of young Derek?’
‘Almost nothing, only if we happen to be at home at the same time and that’s seldom. Is he a friend of yours? I mean, aren’t you a bit …?’ She stopped and went pink and he finished smoothly,
‘Old for him. Of course I am; my father was a friend of his father. I’ve known the family on and off for a long time.’
‘I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Two apologies in less than half an hour, Beatrice. Don’t do it again or I might have to alter my opinion of you.’
He passed his cup for more coffee and began to talk about her brother.
It was after eleven o’clock by the time he stopped the car by the passage door. ‘You’re not supposed to park here,’ said Beatrice as he got out.
She might have saved her breath for he took no notice, but opened the door and followed her inside.
‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening,’ said Beatrice politely. ‘It was most kind of you. Goodnight, Professor van der Eekerk.’
He began to walk up the stairs beside her and she said, ‘There’s no need.’
‘Hush, girl, save your breath for the climb.’ So she hushed since there was little point in arguing with him and at her door he took the key from her and stood aside to let her in and then went ahead of her to turn on the lights before wishing her a quiet goodnight and going down the stairs two at a time in what she considered to be a highly dangerous manner.
She stood in the middle of the room reflecting that when she had been taken out for the evening she had always been thanked for her company and been given to understand that her companion had enjoyed it—Professor van der Eekerk, on the other hand, hadn’t said any such thing.
She had a bath and got ready for bed feeling peevish. ‘There will be no need to speak to him tomorrow,’ she told herself, and thumped her pillows into comfort. ‘I dare say he only asked me out because he wanted company at the dinner-table and I happened to be handy.’
She went to sleep, having quite forgotten about Tom.
The learned gentlemen attending the seminar began to arrive soon after half-past eight and Beatrice was kept busy ticking their names off her list, helping the more elderly out of their coats and scarves, finding mislaid notes, spectacles and cough lozenges and ushering them into the conference hall, a gloomy place filled with rows of uncomfortable chairs, its walls painted a particularly repellent green and having a small platform at one end on which was a table, half a dozen chairs and, since Beatrice found the place so bleak, a bowl of hyacinths on the table, flanked by a carafe of water and a glass.
The first speaker was Professor Moore, still suffering from his cold and by no means in the best of tempers. Once he had arrived his colleagues started to file into the hall, stopping to greet friends as they went and taking their time about it. Beatrice looked at her list; there were still half a dozen to come …
They came in a group and one of them was Professor van der Eekerk, towering over his companions. She noticed that he appeared to be on the best of terms with all of them, and, like them, greeted her with a polite good morning before going into the hall. She wasn’t sure what she had expected; all she knew was that she felt disappointed. She watched his massive back disappear through the door and told herself that she had no wish to see him again. A wish she was unable to fulfil, for, the first paper having been duly read and discussed, the distinguished audience surged out of the hall and into one of the smaller lecture-rooms where coffee and biscuits awaited them. Still deep in talk, they received their cups and saucers in an absentminded fashion, and Beatrice, making her way from one group to another with some of the biscuits, was sure that Professor van der Eekerk was unaware of her being there, deep as he was in discussion with several other doctors. She was wrong, of course. His heavy-lidded gaze followed her around the room without apparently doing so and when she was at last back behind the coffee percolators, refilling the cups her helpers fetched, all she could see of him was his back in a superbly tailored suit.
The second paper to be read before lunch started late, which meant that it finished late. Beatrice, pacifying the cook, wished the erudite and wordy gentleman on the platform to Jericho, going on and on about endocrinology. When he at length came to an end she lost no time in urging his audience to repair to the smaller lecture hall once more and ladled soup to be handed round without loss of time while the cook seethed over the lamb cutlets, ruined, she assured Beatrice.
Ruined or not, they were eaten; indeed, the various conversations were so engrossing that she doubted if anyone had noticed what was on their plates. She portioned out castle puddings with a generous hand and went to make sure that the coffee percolators were ready.
The afternoon session was to be taken up by a paper on haematology by Professor van der Eekerk and, contrary to the previous lecturer, she hoped that he would take a long time delivering it; it would give them time to clear the room once more and put out the tea things—sandwiches, buttered buns and fruit cake. Having some considerable experience of similar occasions, she knew what got eaten and what got left.
Ready and with time to spare, she took a discreet peep through the not quite closed doors of the lecture hall. Professor van der Eekerk was well into his subject: haemolytic anaemia, jaundice, the Rh factor and a lot of long words which meant nothing to her. She opened the door a little wider and listened. He had a deep voice, rather slow, and with only a trace of an accent. She poked her head round the door and he looked straight at her. Without a pause he went on, ‘Now polycythaemia is an entirely different matter …’
Beatrice withdrew her head smartly. He had appeared to look at her but the hall was large and she had been right at the back of it. She thought it unlikely that he had noticed her. She glanced at her watch; he was due to finish in five minutes, so she and her helpers started to carry the plates of food in. With luck, no one would linger over tea, for they would all be anxious to go home. She sighed. They would be back again tomorrow.
Her hopes were dashed. They sat over their tea, drinking second and third cups and eating everything in sight. ‘Like a swarm of locusts,’ said the cook crossly, cutting up yet another cake. ‘And’ ow they can eat and drink and talk about blood beats me though I must say ‘e ‘oo did the talking is something like. Wouldn’t mind ‘aving a lecture from ‘im.’ Beatrice, bearing the cake, was stopped by the senior medical consultant of the hospital. ‘Very nice, Miss Crawley, organised with your usual finesse. We are a little behind time, I fancy, but Professor van der Eekerk’s paper was most interesting. We look forward to his second talk tomorrow. Is that more cake? Splendid.’ He beamed at her. ‘A delightful tea—most enjoyable.’
They all went at last; Beatrice sent the part-time helpers home, spent a brief time with the cook checking the menu for the next day, assured her that she could manage on her own and, once left to herself, emptied the dishwasher and began to put out coffee-cups and saucers, spoons and sugar basins ready for the morning. They were well ahead for the next day, she reflected. There had been time while they waited between the breaks to prepare the food and collect plates and cutlery ready to lay the tables again. She had almost finished when the entrance door was pushed open and Tom came in.
‘Thought you’d be here. Lord, I’ve had a busy day—I could do with a sandwich or even a coffee …’
Beatrice arranged the last few cups just so. ‘Go away, Tom. I’m tired, I’ve had a busy day too and you know you have no business to be here.’
‘Since when haven’t I been allowed to come over here?’ He was laughing, wheedling her.
‘You know very well what I mean. Of course you can come here when you need to see the path. lab about something or other. But this isn’t the path. lab and in any case if you are as busy as you say you are you can telephone.’
‘Snappy, aren’t you? Never mind, I’ll make allowances, I dare say your dull old men have bored you stiff. When we marry you can stay at home and keep house and be a lady of leisure.’
‘I’m not going to marry you, Tom. Now go away, do.’
He came round the counter towards her. ‘Oh, come on, you know you don’t mean it.’
He was smiling and he had a charming smile, only she didn’t feel like being charmed; she wanted a quick meal, a hot bath and her bed. She pushed his arm away. ‘I said go away …’
The outer door had opened very quietly. Professor van der Eekerk was beside her before she had even seen him come in. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Crawley, do forgive me, but I need to check the times of the papers being read tomorrow. Perhaps you would like me to come back later?’
He smiled gently at her and glanced at Tom Ford, murmured something or other and turned to go again.
‘Don’t go,’ said Beatrice, rather more loudly than she had intended. ‘There’s no need. I mean, I’ll be glad to help you, Professor.’ She shot a fiery look at Tom. ‘Dr Ford was just going.’
‘In that case …’ observed the professor and held the door for Tom to go through, giving him a cheerful goodnight as he went.
‘Now what?’ asked Beatrice, very much on edge and not disposed to be polite or friendly.
‘Food, a long hot bath and bed,’ said Professor van der Eekerk, putting his finger exactly on the crux of the matter. ‘Go and get a coat—don’t bother with titivating yourself, you’ll do as you are. We’ll go to a fish and chip shop or something similar. You can eat your fill and be back here within the hour.’
‘I had intended—’ began Beatrice haughtily.
‘Beans on toast? A boiled egg? A great girl like you needs a square meal. Off you go.’
He held the door open and after a moment she went past him and started up the stairs. She told herself that she hadn’t said anything because she was speechless with rage; in actual fact he had suggested exactly what she wanted to do …
She got her coat and, since he had said—rudely, she considered—that she was all right as she was, she didn’t bother to look in the mirror. When she joined him she said frostily, ‘You wanted to ask me something, Professor?’
He looked vague. ‘Did I? Oh, yes, of course. It was the first thing I thought of. I was coming out of the hospital when I saw your boyfriend coming this way …’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He went around turning off lights and then ushered her out into the passage. ‘I was told by your excellent head porter that there is a splendid café just along the street. Alfred’s Place is its name, I believe—let us sample Alfred’s cooking.’
He took her arm and marched her out of the forecourt and into the busy street, its small shops still open and plenty of people still about. The café was a bare five minutes’ walk away; the professor pushed open the door and urged her inside. It was almost full and the air was redolent of hot food and Beatrice’s charming nose wrinkled with delight as they sat down at a table in one corner.
There was no menu but Alfred came over at once. “Ow do?’ he greeted them cheerfully. ‘Me old pal at St Justin’s gave me a tinkle, said you might be coming. ‘E’s ‘ead porter.’
‘Very thoughtful of him. What can you offer us? We have very little time but we’re hungry …’
‘Pot o’ tea ter start and while yer drinking it I’ll do a couple of plates of bacon and eggs, tomatoes and fried bread.’ Alfred, small and portly, drew himself up. ‘I reckon you wouldn’t eat better up west.’
‘It sounds delicious.’ The professor glanced at Beatrice. ‘Or is there something else you fancy, Beatrice?’
‘I can’t think of anything nicer. And I’d love a cup of tea.’
The tea came, borne by a plump pretty girl, untidy, but nevertheless very clean. She gazed at the professor as she set the pot before Beatrice. ‘Dad says you’re a professor,’ she breathed in an excited whisper. ‘I never seen one before.’
She gave him a wide grin and hurried away to answer another customer.
‘I feel that I should have horns or a beard and a basilisk stare at the very least!’
Beatrice poured their tea, a strong brew, powerful enough to revive the lowest spirits. ‘Well, you do look like one, you know, only you’re a bit too young …’
‘I’ll start the beard first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘No, no, don’t be absurd, what I mean is that most people think of professors as being elderly and grey-haired and forgetful and unworldly.’
‘I have the grey hair, but I rather like the world, don’t you? I can be forgetful when I want to be and in a few years I shall be elderly.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Beatrice. ‘I don’t suppose you are over forty.’
‘Well, no, I’m thirty-seven—and how old are you, Beatrice?’
She answered without thinking. ‘Twenty-eight,’ and then, ‘Why do you ask? It’s really not polite …’
‘But I’m not polite, only when life demands it of me. I wanted to know so that we can clear the air.’
‘Clear the air—whatever do you mean?’
She wasn’t going to find out for Alfred arrived with two plates piled high with crisp bacon, eggs fried to a turn and mushrooms arranged nicely on a bed of fried bread.
‘Eat it while it’s ‘ot,’ he told them, and took away the teapot to refill it.
Alfred was a good cook, perhaps the best in the area bisected by the Commercial Road. With yet more tea, they did justice to his food.
Beatrice put down her knife and fork. ‘That was lovely. My goodness, I feel ready for anything.’
‘Not until the morning. You’re going back to bath and a bed now.’
He smiled at her protesting face. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
He paid the bill, added a tip to make Alfred’s eyes glisten, assured him that they would certainly come again, and marched her out back at a brisk pace to her own door, opened it for her, bade her goodnight and closed it quietly, barely giving her time to thank him. Almost as though he couldn’t wait to get away from her. Yet he had rescued her from Tom. She was too tired to think about it; she had her bath and got into bed and was asleep within minutes.
The first paper in the morning was to be read by an eminent surgeon from Valencia, well known for his research into nutritional disorders. It was a cold dark morning and his audience came promptly and briskly, glad to be indoors. Beatrice, counting heads, saw that they were all there. She hadn’t seen Professor van der Eekerk go in, but there he was sitting near the front, his handsome head bent to listen to whatever it was his neighbour had to say. She went back to the kitchen and began to pile biscuits on to plates and make sure that there was a plentiful supply of coffee. There was at least an hour before it would be required; she began to do her daily round of the building, checking that everything was as it should be. She had barely done that before it was time to help with the coffee and once that was done she went to her small office on the ground floor, to do the paperwork which took up a good deal of her time. Professor van der Eekerk had begun his paper but this time she didn’t go near the lecture hall; she had too much to do, she reminded herself, and besides that, what was the point? She didn’t see him to speak to for the rest of the day, and somehow, she didn’t quite know how, she missed his leaving at the end of the afternoon. Leave-takings had been slow and numerous and several people had stopped to speak to her and thank her but he hadn’t been among them. Putting everything to rights once more with the help of her assistants, she reflected that probably, since they had met at a friend’s house, politeness had prompted him to seek her out; she was working at St Justin’s after all and he couldn’t have ignored her completely. He had, she thought, done rather more than that, and at least the sight of him might discourage Tom.
She made her supper in her little kitchenette and went to bed with a book. She read half a page and flung the book on to the floor. Life was being very dull, she decided, and she had to admit that she would miss Tom’s company even though he could be tiresome. At least she had New Year’s Eve to look forward to, she reminded herself. Derek’s grandmother lived in Hampstead, a lively old lady who never missed an opportunity to enjoy life. His parents would be coming up to spend the night and he had managed somehow to be free. There would be a lot of people there and she mulled over her wardrobe.
Waking in the morning, common sense combined with the cold clear winter’s day decided her to despatch the professor from her mind. It was surprising how sensible she felt about it; of course, after a day’s work and feeling a bit fed up, she would probably regret not seeing him again.
Quite soon, she was summoned to the hospital committee’s office. She went, outwardly composed, inwardly wondering what was in store for her. Like every other hospital St Justin’s was cutting back on staff, beds and equipment—perhaps there was a plan to cut back on the research department, the path. labs and the numerous study rooms and library. If so, she supposed that they could make do with part-time staff although the lab people weren’t going to like that … She went through the hospital and into a wide corridor at the front of the building where the various offices were, and tapped on a door, convinced that she was about to be made redundant.
A voice told her to enter and she went inside.
Ten minutes later she came out again; nothing was being cut back, she wasn’t to be given her notice; on the contrary, she was to exchange her post with someone similar in the Netherlands. ‘A step forward in the unification of Europe’, she had been told. It was envisaged that within the next few years it would be possible for hospitals to exchange staff as and when they wished; this was by way of an experiment.
Her observation that she had no knowledge of the Dutch language was waved aside. ‘English is spoken,’ she was told, ‘although of course you will be expected to study the language during your stay there.’
She had wanted to know how long that would be.
‘We haven’t decided yet. I believe that the Leiden School of Medicine recommend a month in the first instance. Two ward sisters, a male nurse and a physiotherapist will also be going.’
Authority had dismissed her courteously, her head full of unanswered questions.
That evening she phoned her mother, who heard her news without interruption and then remarked in her placid way, ‘Well, dear, it will make a nice change for you and you’ll meet some nice people. You might see that charming man who came to the party with Derek—’
‘Most unlikely,’ said Beatrice quickly, and wished that it wasn’t. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll know more by then, maybe.’
She dressed with care on New Year’s Eve in a silk crêpe dress in a pretty shade of old rose, covered it with a long velvet coat and, with her new shoes and her evening bag tucked under her arm, went down to the forecourt. It was a bitter night but the sky was clear and the hospital lights dispelled the dark. She was fitting the key in her car’s lock when footsteps behind her made her turn round. Tom was coming towards her.
She had managed to avoid him for two days, firmly refusing to go out with him when he had telephoned. She opened the door and got into the car just as he reached it.
‘Still playing hard to get?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer, Beatrice.’
‘I’m not playing at anything, Tom; I said no and I meant it.’
She switched on the engine and he put a hand on the window. ‘Let’s get together and talk this through,’ he suggested. ‘You know as well as I do that we could rub along together.’
‘I’m sorry, Tom, but no.’
‘Are you off this weekend?’
‘I’m going home, Tom. I must go, I’m already late.’
He took his hand away reluctantly and she drove out into the quiet street and turned the car westward. The street would be lively enough in a few hours’ time, the pub would be overflowing with people celebrating the new year and there would be a good deal of activity still. She drove carefully, avoiding the very heart of the city where crowds were already gathering. She wasn’t nervous, only anxious to get to Hampstead on time.
The house Derek’s grandmother lived in was in a quiet, wide avenue, a large Edwardian mansion surrounded by a well kept and uninteresting garden, full of laurel bushes and well kept shrubs, rather sombre. Its large windows were blazing with light and there were any number of cars parked on the sweep before the front door. Beatrice eased her little car between a Daimler and a Mercedes, replaced her sensible driving shoes with the new ones and trod across to the portico. The old lady lived in some style and her servants had been with her for almost all of her married life. The elderly butler who admitted her was white-haired and a little shaky but his appearance brought a nostalgic whiff of earlier days as he led her solemnly across the hall and handed her over to an equally elderly maid who preceded her up the long flight of stairs to the room set aside for lady guests. Beatrice poked at her hair, wriggled her feet in the shoes to make sure that they were comfortable, gave the maid the coat she had shed and went downstairs.
There was a good deal of noise coming from behind the big double doors on one side of the hall. The butler opened them for her and she went inside and found a room full of people.
It was necessary to find her hostess and she was relieved to see the old lady sitting at the other end of the room, talking to Derek. She made her way there, said all that was civil, exchanged a friendly kiss with Derek and looked around for her mother and father.
‘They’re in the second drawing-room; I’ve just come from there. Do come back here when you’ve spoken to them, I want to hear about this jaunt to Holland.’
She had begun to work her way through the groups of people drinks in hand chatting together. She knew several of them and stopped to say hello as she went. She was going through the open arch which led to a smaller similar room when she stopped.
Professor van der Eekerk was leaning against a wall, watching her.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0d988ea4-3d6d-5021-9ae1-5184ae0aa265)
BEATRICE felt a glow of pleasure at the sight of him and instantly suppressed it. She said sedately, ‘Why, Professor, I didn’t expect to see you here.’
He had moved to stand in front of her so that she wouldn’t be able to pass unless she forgot her manners and poked him in the waistcoat. Unthinkable but tempting. ‘Why should you expect to see me?’ he asked coolly. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you. It will be nice when this cold weather—’
‘Ah, yes, let us hide our true feelings behind remarks about the weather. Are you glad to see me?’
She gave him a cold glance. ‘I would rather discuss the weather.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Come off your high horse, Beatrice, and tell me how life is treating you.’
She had quite forgotten her parents. ‘Well, just the same as usual, you know.’ She glanced at him and found him watching her intently so that she felt compelled to add, ‘As a matter of fact, I have to go on an exchange scheme—just for a month or so—to promote a wider exchange of jobs in the EC.’ She wasn’t going to tell him where.
In the silence which followed she stared at his waistcoat, a sober black affair, not at all like the trendy sort of thing some of the men there were wearing. When she peeped at him at last he was obviously waiting for her to say something else. She said pettishly, ‘Oh, all right, I’m to go to Holland.’
He said mildly, ‘Yes, I know. Leiden—you’ll like it there, I think. Why didn’t you want to tell me, Beatrice?’
‘It couldn’t possibly interest you. Besides, it would look as though …’
He said gently, ‘But I am not very often in Leiden; our chances of meeting would be very slight.’
She said, suddenly brisk, ‘Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? Now I really must find Mother and Father. If I don’t see you again …’
‘Oh, but you will. I’m spending the weekend with Derek’s people at Little Estling. You’re going home tomorrow?’
She had said yes before she had time to think.
‘Splendid; I’ll drive you down. I have to be back on Sunday evening—I can give you a lift back.’
‘I intended driving down in my own car.’
‘No, no, that won’t do at all; I can tell you about the hospital at Leiden as we go.’
He smiled down at her and she said weakly, ‘Oh, very well. Now I really must …’
‘Yes, yes, they are at the far end of the room. Let us join them.’
Her mother offered a cheek for her to kiss. ‘That’s a pretty dress, darling.’ Mrs Crawley eyed her daughter with motherly concern. ‘What’s all this about going to Holland?’ She smiled at the professor as she spoke. ‘I expect you know about it, Gijs?’
Gijs, indeed. Beatrice waited to see what he would say.
‘Yes, I was told something of the scheme when I was in Leiden this week. I’m looking forward to meeting the nursing staff who will be going over too. I feel it is most important that we should have instant rapport with those with whom we work wherever we go.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Mrs Crawley comfortably. ‘I don’t suppose you will see anything of Beatrice, then.’
‘Not very likely, I’m afraid, but she will find everyone very friendly and there’s quite a pleasant social life in the hospital and medical school and the usual free time, I believe. You and Dr Crawley might spend a weekend while she is there; Leiden is a charming city and its centre is still unspoilt.’
‘That’s an idea. Are you staying in town or going to Derek’s people this weekend?’
‘I’m driving down early tomorrow morning. I’ll bring Beatrice with me for I have to get back at the same time as she does.’
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